Must look awesome

This story starts and ends in 'stache. When a weekend on the Jersey shore playing Ultimate began to take shape, my friend Alan made a call far and wide for the team to wear our finest in mustachery. For my friends this generally meant some form of facial sacrifice. It meant turning to 1970s cop shows, pre-industrial Japan, and Joe Dirt for inspiration. For me, it merely meant maintaining the prickly hair that I had cultivated over the past four years. As the weekend approached, pressure began to mount to turn my bearded look into one that emphasized the mustache. Knowing that my playing time would be limited I debated the merits of re-releasing my chin to the outside world. After some deliberation, I decided to free my face from a large portion of the hair that had taken up residence there. It proved not to be so simple. These follicles were like tiny roommates, tiny friends, tiny armed guards for my face. And there are many styles of mustache to choose from. With clippers in hand, I froze.

There's an art to facial hair and so to help make my decision I called on an artist. Matt had been there in the earliest days as I had struggled to connect the chin hairs with the upper lip hairs into pseudo-beatnick glory- the goatee. He'd been there when I'd come down from the mountains sporting six months of solid growth. I'd seen him transition from goatee to chin strap and back again. Our beards had grown together, although not in a weird blond hair twisting with brown kind of way, more like we'd both had facial hair at the same time. Now, I turned to him in my time of need. Where should I take this art, this mustache? I asked of him like a man who had gone to visit the Dalai Lama. Like a buddhist monk, his answer took the form of guidance and lead my heart and mind where it needed to be.

We reached the conclusion, and the journey took us to the fu manchu. It sounds like somewhere a monk might send me. Fu Manchu, just off the coast of the razor by way of clipper. The transformation was quick and save the buzzing of the clippers, silent. I did not wake up the next morning a changed man. I was still me, although my reflection looked quite a bit like a truck driver.

I took the essence of me with my truck driver face and headed to work where I promptly forgot the state of my face. My coworkers are very nice people and their remarks tended toward shock without rudeness. I appreciated it and was only reminded of my transformation when my fingers struck chin. My chin may be many things, but twirlable it is not.

Having survived a shortened workday, I prepared to unveil my new look to Alan and those that I would share my weekend with. Alan reacted with amusement and thrill. I felt my mission was accomplished. For the most part, although my look had changed, I felt the same. As the weekend wore on, some combination of boardwalk, deep-fried Oreos, and fu manchu worked like the sand in my shoe to free a little of the skeeviness inside of me. I could blame the mustache or New Jersey, but I have come to believe there's a little skeeve inside of each of us. With meditation and an outdoor shower, I was able to tame the skeevy beast within and return to mastery of myself and my fu manchu. The culmination of this mastery may have been in a diner just across the street from the oldest living oak. Uncle Rico, a samurai called Sunday Night Special, and me, your Thurman Munson look-alike, were halfway through dinner; The Platters were crooning on our tableside jukebox when we realized that each of us looked ridiculeautiful (that rare combination of ridiculous and beautiful) and our waitress had not reacted in the slightest. We had made our peace with the 'stache.

A day in the life of superstars and me

There are certain awesome moments in life. Moments that I don't just want blog about, but actually want to remember forever, or a reasonable approximation thereof. Today, I had such a moment. Today's moment, as many moments on this blog, is about a girl, a woman really. The moment is really a movement, or more accurately the economy of movement. The moment, the movement, involved me standing less than 30 feet from a tennis racket wielded by one of the winningest tennis players around, Martina Navratilova. I don't believe I'm one to get particularly star struck, that affliction which renders one a bit of a blubbering fool in front of the famous. I don't have opportunity to test this theory often, but I'd already stepped up to a microphone and asked Martina how she dealt with injury. Nerve-wracking certainly, but more so because I told a thousand people that my stomach hurt rather than the fact that one of them was a 20-time winner at Wimbledon. Martina seemed very affable and down-to-earth when she spoke.

The alluded to moment though struck me and made me into a blubbering fool. As I looked on, Ms. Navratilova volleyed soft faux-tennis balls with an amateur- a competitive amateur and coach, but an amateur none-the-less. Martina hit the ball as she talked about the importance of racket placement. Her racket moved almost impercectibly and at a perfect angle to return the faux-balls. The difference between how she used her racket and how the amatuer used hers was like the difference between a tornado and its eye. On a much smaller scale, but her racket head remained placed perfectly, whether it was behind her back, between her legs or as a simple forehand. There are hundreds and thousands who have observed Martina up close and on the court. They've seen this movement combined with the other skills that made her great, but I consider it an honor to have witnessed this tiny moment and these simple movements which she has undertaken probably millions of times.

I feel I have not done justice to the moment. So with a bit of a stretch let me contrast it to the time I nearly danced with Tina Turner.

It was lunch time and I was eating my smaller portion. I had just shared an hour with a champion and a thousand others, when the emcee had me put my hands together for Tina Turner. Many of us leapt from our seats and headed to the stage as hits like Proud Mary and Rollin' on the River were belted in our general direction. There was some girlish screaming, not from me of course. I am not a big Tina Turner fan, but the day suddenly seemed full of possibility. During an early song of the performance, I started to scrutinize Ms. Turner. She certainly sounded right, but her face didn't look quite right. Not being a big fan, I realized that her age and my poor memory might be causing doubt where it did not belong. As the song ended, the test occurred to me. I glanced down from her face to her legs. I don't know much about Tina Turner, but I know she's got some fantastic gams. This performer did not. Either this was an imposter or the famous legs had taken a turn for the worse. And by turn I mean they exited the highway of "Wow" at the Truckstop called "ughn". I returned to my seat and announced my opinion- not Tina. Those more prone to proclamations declared, "I know Tina and she is no Tina."

Despite these proclamations, the power of a crowd is mighty. Important people, people who should know, declared she was the real deal. The crowd remained around the stage and frankly, the imposter was giving a good performance. She brought a group of guys up on stage, one I was nearly pushed into, who took to shaking various things. This performer made an awkward statement about Ike which seemed like it was in bad taste for an impersonater... this brought back a few bits of doubt on the other side. Maybe it was her? Others were certain she was the real deal. One looked me in the eye and said, "her tone and pitch are right. Her movements are right and her eyes are right. It's her."

"But the legs?" I squealed, and he could not answer.

One perfect moment on a champion's racket, and one pretty good imposter with legs that betrayed her (or I heard rumors of him). Not a bad brush with the famous and nearly famous.

Points of order and beyond

Point the first: My new definition of success states that when a bike tire goes flat, success is being able to change bikes.

Remember where George Washington lived? I biked there on Saturday on a bit of a whim. Quite pleasant, really. The food court is a little overpriced, but I'm sure the money goes to a good cause, like making Washington's pockets even deeper. Come on, the man is on the dollar bill and even the rappers know it's all about him. Or was it Franklin? Regardless, the ride was a good one. Downhill both ways; or at least rolling enough to make me think that.

Point the second: Harry Potter fans are kind of kooky, but fun. Read about the second largest celebration in the statesat the Gig. I ducked out early because I like to support J.K.'s retirement from afar and read other people's books. To expand on that point secondhand underwear is no good, but secondhand Potter novels are excellent. I will not continue except to point you to this Washington Post article which has pointed me to some other interesting reading and made an excellent observation about how part of the charm of Potter may be in the sense of community. The writer didn't say it like that, instead phrasing it more that the appeal was in being in synch with the world due to mass media hysteria, but I think it further supports an idea that I keep coming back to-- people are seeking community. If that means standing in line for a book at midnight, that's not so bad. It just reinforces that there need to be more opportunities to meet that need.

Point the Monday: Desk jobs and poor posture may have contributed to my current injured state. It's hard to expect muscles to work when they just sit around all day. I'm not going to quit, but I'm going to try to improve my posture along with taking some other more agressive measures.

Point the Tuesday: I heard from a nutritionist today to "eat light and eat often." I've heard this before, but her presentation on how this translated into controlling glucose made more sense than anything I've ever heard about eating before. I want to follow her advice. I expect some challenges, but hopefully this can lead to a healthier me.

There's the points. Add it up. $5.79, please.

Profound moment of the day

I'd like this to become a regular feature, but I don't think it will.

I said, "I'm not like everybody else."

She said,"Nobody is."

Blasphemorophic

I think I get it. The appeal of the exercise-free existence. It's "extra" hours in the day. There's fewer sweaty shirts and shorts. I can go to a place and not spend the whole weekend teetering on the brink of exhaustion. I can eat Nachos in the middle of a Saturday and not worry about the cheese weighing me down or worse coming up. If I'm a little dehydrated, it doesn't affect the performance of my Metro ride.

I think I get it. I can even appreciate it.

P.S. I hate it.

A battle for the 50

It was vs.


It was a battle of wits. It was a battle of charm. Armed with my winsome personality and my learned ability to attract the greatest generation, I took on what some have called "the cutest baby EVER." It seemed like an impossible task. Look at those adorable little arms! We agreed to the terms. At the end of the weekend, the winner would be the hat wearer who had attracted the most people over 50. I agreed not to go out of my way to recruit so long as she agreed not to use words. At a coffee shop, she immediately jumped out to an early lead, but I was able to battle back, taking the lead by snagging a couple in a conversation about a strange gathering of birds on the surface of the lake. I had the advantage of mobility, but what the girl lacked in transport she more than made up in squeaky sounds. My lead was short-lived and a flock of elders apparently descended on her in a grocery store, putting her total out of my reach.

I accept defeat humbly. Hats off to my worthy opponent.

If I could just ramble for a moment
DFW, or thereabouts- It's like I'm at summer camp for grown-ups. I'm at a training and we're staying in a compound. I've had cafeteria food for the last three days and it's been fun. One day I had a Frito pie for lunch. I was thinking that a Frito pie might be more manageable than the also-available Super Frito pie. The Frito pie was *newly-added-dictionary-word* ginormous. I can only imagine that the Super would fill a bus with chili and cheese. It was Texas-sized, y'all.

This place is a perfect training facility except for one thing. I'm trapped. Please, don't send help, but there is not a lot to do here at night. I have decided that my best course of entertainment is the ping pong table. Sure, they have a pool, a tennis court, a basketball court, a strange bar-like room, but the ping pong table immediately attracted my attention. Two nights ago I volleyed with with a colleague for around an hour or so. It was quite enjoyable. Last night, I volleyed with the same gentleman and then another man from a different training cut in. He was quite a bit more agressive in his ping pong style. I had been toying with my paddle grip all evening. Growing up, I had played with an upside down paddle- four fingers on one side and a thumb on the other. This was fairly effective for me, but involves moving my fingers whenever I need to hit a backhand. I toyed with a grip that looped my index finger and thumb around the neck and left three fingers that had to be moved to hit a backhand. It was also ok, but I knew something more lurked. Finally, I decided to loop all my fingers around the neck to meet my thumb. This grip immediately yielded a lower, faster serve and some natural forehand spin. At the risk of revealing my weakness, it also rendered my backhand nearly worthless. I began to find ways to cope, but I still need more time to perfect this technique.

This man and I volleyed for a while. As the evening wore on, I decided to test my grip in a game situation. I was immediately trounced to the tune of 21-13. During a second game, I quickly found myself down 4-1. Then I had a realization and some good luck. The good luck came first, as my forehand with top spin began to find the table. The man I was playing had a fairly wicked backhand with top spin, but I returned a few and clawed my way back into the game. Combine that luck with a realization that there are more weapons than one in a game so nobley dubbed ping pong. I started to change the pace of my shots. I stopped serving everying low and fast. I'd lob some in. I'd put some to the left and some to the right. This wasn't an exact science and some of my good luck continued, but I found my opponent unable to rip his backhand with as much confidence as I did this. I pulled away and won 21-12. In our final game, he again pulled ahead early. I talked myself off the ledge, went back to my pace changing strategy, threw in some good luck top spin and found myself on top again 21-14. Oh, the delicious smell of sweat and victory. Also my greatest sports triumph in more than a month...

Apparently delirious from my victory, I somehow set my alarm clock an hour earlier, not the alarm mind you, the actual clock. I thought that I'd lost an hour awfully quickly last night as I was watching TV in my tiny room. Now I find that hour. Too bad I rushed through my bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (product placement alert!).

Endless Summer

It smells of burnt marshmallow and despair. The perspiration has pooled inside my bike gloves. The pools leak through the fabric and slime my palms. It reeks of day old pit toilet and anger. My weakened lungs wheeze at the effort of pedaling up the last hill on the way home while my sore stomach muscles grind against one another in an unnatural friction. The Guinness on my breath goes unmasked by the moldy water from my bottle. I begin to question the wisdom of the Southwest burger medium well. I'm now riding like I'm mired in the guacamole from dinner. I sweat profusely in a way that has far more to do with genetics than jalapenos. I labor through the thick summer air, cooled slightly by an afternoon thunderstorm. This is my ride home. This is the second best part of my day.

Don't I know you?

Perhaps, nostalgia may have been swirling around the wrinkles of my brain. I'd skipped my high school reunion not a week before. Maybe, my mind had taken to inventorying every face I had ever seen and culling them for those that were still relevant in day-to-day or year-to-year existence. Whatever was going on, I seemed to be nearly recognizing a number of people. There on the Metro, wasn't that the girl from high school pom-pon squad who also taught at the local gymnastics class? No, her face had been thinner, her nose more angled. As my old classmates walked a fine line between remembering and reliving, I stared at Ultimate players who tend to look similar anyway and was sure I'd find one I used to know. I didn't.

A week later, as luggage slowly tumbled from the conveyor belt, I spotted a girl I'd known in middle school. She was taller than I remembered, older too. She found a man and they embraced. I looked away and waited for a suitcase. The man stayed and the woman left. I was tempted to walk up and ask him if the woman he was waiting for might be the girl I once knew. I was dissuaded from this notion as the kinked metal went round and round. I looked back and saw that the woman now waited for the man. She was propped comfortably against the wall, an instrument case at her feet. The girl I had known played an instrument of some sort, but then at that age most of us did. There was no hurry about her. She was waiting patiently. Unable to silence the voice in my head, I turned and walked up to her.

"Are you Lisa?" I asked.
"Yes." she said, quizzically.
"I'm David. I think we went to middle school together."
She looked at me stunned and then said, "We were in Science Olympiad"
I don't know whether it was a statement or a question, but I confirmed that we were. We had a brief conversation, the kind you have after a surprise greeting from an adolescent teammate who now sports a beard, very few mutual acquaintances, and 13 or so years between the last undoubtedly awkward interaction. It was middle school after all.

I fled before her fiance returned and could only cackle with glee at the thought of her telling him that some guy from middle school had just recognized her.

Baseball, Irish torts, scotch, and fireworks

America. America. I like to celebrate with thee.

I was treated to some fine Nationals baseball on my birthday. Reuben even let me wear his glove in case any foul balls managed to reach the middle upper deck. None did, but it was a birthday my grandpa would've been pleased to attend, although he might not have joined in during the wave. The Cubs knocked off the Nats 3-1. We had ample opportunity to shout "HeyBattaBatta," but didn't. I consumed a hot dog, a lemonade, and grew nostalgic for the lightboards that are not yet extinct.

After the game, I was treated to an Irish Chocolate tort and an 18 year old Glenmorangie single malt scotch. I savored the scotch well into the 4th of July and was excited to discover that Glenmorangie has a Missouri connection. It is aged first in casks made from wood from the Ozarks. It appears that Glenmorangie and I have taken our original Missouri connections and aged into tasty inside-tingling savor-able goodness. Or something like that.

Firework viewing in this area is a bit of a challenge. There's something about seeing stuff blow up in the capital that just brings out the crowds. I've been told that the mall used to be a massive fourth of July party, but last time I was there it resembled an outdoor airport security line. Last year, Clare and I watched the fireworks from a Metro station. It put us a ways from the fireworks, but paid dividends in both oddity of the environment, trains occassionaly blocked our view, and the efficiency with which we managed to beat the crowds. Construction this year has obstructed that view further. This year we rode our bikes to a prime viewing spot about 2 miles from the Washington Monument. We gathered with a crowd, but a much more manageable one. The Monument wasn't in a position to add much visual drama to the exploding colors filling the sky, but it served as a nice peripheral reminder of why the sky was exploding. The ride home in the darkness was my personal celebration of independence as we manuevered past lines of traffic and packed Metro stations.

July 5 seems to be just another day, but it's still early, so I'm holding out hope.

It will be soon
To sit and eat peanut butter and jelly and drink the celebrated Oatmeal Stout is the flavor represenation of the clash of my youth and a new age. Finger painting meets art appreciation set to classical music. I've always believed that age is only a number and as I continue to be unable to play Ultimate that number hovers dangerously close to 500. No offense to the hobbits.